


cake and wine

by bittersnake



Category: Little Red Riding Hood (Fairy Tale)
Genre: Blood Kink, F/M, ID FIC GETCHA ID FIC HERE, Knifeplay, Others are blood and stabbing, Shameful amount of blade innuendo, some people's love language is gift giving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-18
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:27:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28147593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bittersnake/pseuds/bittersnake
Summary: her hands are stained with wine/his fur is white as pure snow
Relationships: Big Bad Wolf/Little Red Riding Hood (Little Red Riding Hood - Fairy Tale)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 40
Collections: Yuletide 2020





	cake and wine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [joy_shines](https://archiveofourown.org/users/joy_shines/gifts).



Gria's hands smell like a distillery. They're stained a dull violet in spite of multiple soaks and soaps. She can't quite rid herself of the sensation of the paper-thin strands of pulp beneath her nails, no matter how much she scrubs. It's an odd contrast to the rest of her. Skin as rich as the soil of the vineyards that support her family's trade with hands that transition from a dark brown to a pale purple of the berries on the vine. They have machines to handle most of the arduous bits of wine-making, pressing included, but the Grand Matriarch Raine insists that all within her house must know the old ways of their craft, which means crushing grapes by hand at least once a season. She also claims it's character building which is most likely the only grandmotherly thing about the Grand Matriarch. Most of the youth from Gria's generation use gloves for this ritual. Gria has tried both ways but much to her mother's dismay, she prefers the visceral sensation of crushing the grapes between her palms, the fragrant juice forming rivulets down her arms during this sacrifice. The seeds and stems bite into the meat of palms, almost as if the earth is showing its displeasure at being plucked for consumption. 

A bell rings, stirring her from her musings. A customer has arrived. Gria sighs, drying her hands with one of the many stained towels lying about the pressing room of the distillery. She doesn't have time to lay about musing over the nature of her work. There's profit to be made and the _Sanguine Mistress_ is open.

* * *

The Grand Matriarch has called a meeting. Well, to be exact, she is holding a council meeting for the rulers across the continent. The Grand Matriarch is, laughably in Gria's opinion, considered neutral ground since she is merely a merchant. A merchant that happens to have an iron press on all the wine across the continent but a mere merchant nonetheless. As the eldest child from the main branch, Gria is required to attend. 

She hates these meetings. She loves these meetings. 

She delights in seeing the various nobles across the continent bow and scrape to an old woman who built herself up from the muds of Dornesse with a few sparse seeds. She's so tired of her presence being restricted to "sit, stay, and listen". She feels like her role at these gatherings is that of a loyal dog. Good to stare at, perhaps a few good pets if she brings back some choice scraps of secrets muttered in alcoves. 

She's so tired of this constant charade. Her siblings and cousins, somehow think this is some great honor: to be gawked at constantly, sneered at behind glasses full of the wine from her families' vineyard, to hide in the shadows of her family's ambitions, to wrap herself in silks and gems and pretend that she's merely a delicate woman who had the unfortunate lot in life to be born into a merchant's house. That she doesn't work for a living and has the hands to show for it, no matter how many different oils and soaks her mother tries to get the stains out of her skin.

She sighs, staring at her hands encased in gloves-- black this time at least instead of white. They are the outcome of a two-day battle to convince her mother that it would "trendsetting" as opposed to a complete social faux pas to wear them and " _besides, it will hide the stains better_ " before Gria's mother relented. She wonders if anyone is sober enough to miss her if she took a walk around the estate. Gria scans the room. The Grand Matriarch is being her charming self. Her small shriveled form encased in brown satin, strewn with rich green embroidered vines and berry colored gems delicately perched on top of a divan surrounded by various nobles from across Glavada. The dress is utterly unsubtle but the Grand Matriarch did not become one of the dominating forces of the Glavada through subtlety. She saves her subtlety for her words anyway, Gria thinks as she snatches a seedcake from one of the many servers flitting about. She heads outside.

* * *

Gria strips off her gloves as soon as she reaches the grove only to stop abruptly upon noting that there's a man in her grove. Shesuppresses a growl as she comes upon the intruder, just lying upon on the grass as if he had the right to be there. 

"Forgive me," she says injecting a blade of the Grand Matriarch's steel into her voice. "This area is for family members only, but if you follow me I can take you to one of the many gardens on the estate that is open to the populace." 

The man rolls over to face her. He's wearing white, a bold choice for wear to nap in a vineyard, even more, if he was one of the many bowers and scrapers attending the council meeting. 

"Perhaps, I am family,” he says with a smirk. Gria arches a brow, taking in the pale tawny complexion of the intruder, the smooth braid of ink-black hair slowly unraveling over his shoulder. 

"Then, cousin,” she smiles, “you must be properly introduced to the Grand Matriarch, and thus, you must come with me." 

"Even her own blood calls her the Grand Matriarch, fascinating," he drawls, approaching her with long strides. He's tall, she notes with dismay. Tall and dressed poshly. She’d almost wager that he _is_ posh except for there’s something...not quite right about him. There’s sort of rawness is his movements as if he was mimicking the actions of someone else. As if he’s a fraud.

“Yet again, cousin,” she entreats. “I must insist that you come to greet our host.” 

“And, if I rather spend time getting to know my lovely cousin?” he replies huskily, a hand beginning to reach towards her clusters of curls tightly pulled back with multiple filigree combs, more for strength and security, as opposed to any sort of attempt at elegance.

For once, Gria leans into the benefits of her limited height and slips a knife through the layers of cloth of the intruder’s garb, taking a cruel sort of satisfaction in the slow bloom of red budding around the knife. To his credit, he doesn’t flinch, she notes irritatedly. 

“Oh? Are we showing off our blades, cousin?” He looks down at her, with a smirk that she wishes to claw off his face. “I assure you that mine, while not nearly as sharp...makes up for it in other dimensions---ARGH!” He finally gives her a reaction other than self-satisfied arrogance. 

She steps back leaving her knife jutting out from his side. Gria makes an exaggerated curtsy, and leaves the grove stating “You might want to fix that cousin, we only serve blood at weddings.”

* * *

The man isn’t her cousin. Sadly, the man also is not an intruder but only the barest of threads. 

“This is my granddaughter, Sangria Belmont, Lord Arrenus,” the Grand Matriarch says to the elderly gentlemen currently courting her favor, when Gria returns to the ballroom. 

"Sangria..." the noble begins with curiosity suffusing his voice. 

"My parents are very invested in making sure their children are well aware of the family business," Gria's remarks dryly, taking a seat next to the Grand Matriarch. "I go by Gria for most things, Lord Arrenus of..."

"Janholt, my uncle and I hail from Janholt," a familiar voice smoothly cuts through the conversation. The voice is connected to the man from before, no longer clothed in white but instead, inblack robes embellished with the embroidered petals of blue bonnets and silver leaves. 

"Callistus, you've changed again," Lord Arrenus says wearily. "Truly, your predilection towards vanity is quite much."

"I merely believe in being adorned properly for all occasions, Uncle. Besides I tread too closely to some ripe fruit and it decided to....cause a bit of a mess," the intruder-- _Callistus_ replies staring intently at her. 

"Odd, I was unaware that Janholt was known for its sartorial elegance?" Gria notes, plucking a glass from a passing server. "I do hope the run-in you had with the fruit caused no permanent damage to your attire."

"Ah, don't worry, Calli is a bit of a clothes horse,” Lord Arrenus chortled. “He probably found it an excuse to wear yet another outfit instead of restricting himself to just one," 

"Forgive me, Lord Arrenus. I was under the impression that Janholt was a Lycan house? Does Lord Callistus happen to arise from coltish stock?"

"Sangria--"

"It's a fair question, Grand Matriarch."

"Your initial impression was correct, Gria," Callistus rolls the name in his mouth as if it was wine pressed from their vineyards. "We are a Lycan house. Some of us merely prefer to present ourselves in a more civilized fashion."

"Ah, so instead of being a wolf in sheep's clothing, you dull your teeth and claws and lie down with the sheep."

"I assure you, Gria--"

"I am Sangria Belmont, Gria is reserved solely for family."

"I assure you, _San_ gria, that nothing about me is dull."

"Your conversation certainly is," Gria stands bowing to the elderly lord. "Forgive me, Lord Arrenus. Grand Matriarch, I must get back to the _Sanguine_."

The Grand Matriarch sighs at this but she knows the fact that Gria has even stayed this long through the charade was a miracle. "Very well, you are excused Sangria. Give my regards to the rest of the house."

"Of course, Grand Matriarch."

Callistus languidly begins to rise from his seat. "Would you like an escort, Sangria? The roads are dark." 

"I have no fear of the dark nor of any....stray fruit that may fall across my path," she begins.

The Grand Matriarch clears her throat, and Gria remembers where they are. "But I am deeply grateful for your concerns, sir."

It's only when she's halfway and the night begins to chill that she remembers that she left the gloves in the grove. 

* * *

There's a wolf at the distillery. Fur as black as ink with a lustrous shine. Gria has never seen such a vain wolf before. Instead of shying away from the crowds of humans that flow in and out of the _Sanguine Mistress_ , he weaves about the tall chrome vats of liquor every few moments staring at himself and _preening._

The first time he showed up at the distillery almost three weeks ago, he trotted up to her as bold as he could be with a small parcel in his mouth with a note.

_To my dearest cousin,_

_You dropped these._

_Yours,_

_Callistus_

The parcel contains her gloves. She sniffs and promptly goes to work. 

Since then, the wolf stops by every day; both scaring the customers (including the butcher which led to her spending her morning assuaging his nerves as well as promising to acquire security for his wares)as well as showing up with various “gifts”. 

At first the gifts were small baubles; a bracelet, a brooch, and such. All of which, she promptly gives to her siblings in front of him--there is an odd satisfaction in seeing such a large beast _wilt_ \-- stating that she had plenty of jewelry.

The next gift comes a week later. A small ball of fragrant dirt with a note;

_Dearest cousin,_

_May this gift lead to a fertile season._

_Yours,_

_Callistus_

She sniffs it stating, “Should I be insulted or touched that you’ve gone so quickly from wooing with gems to earth?” 

The wolf wilted at this comment. 

“That being said,” she continues, “ I do not dislike this gift.”

Later that evening, she sprinkles the contents of the ball in a small corner of the vineyard where she keeps plants for her own care. If Gria didn’t know any better, they seem to almost glow when she finishes tending to them. 

Callistus and Gria go back and forth this way for some time.

A bolt of pure white wool is laid at her feet. 

_Cousin,_

_May this gift offer you warmth._

_Yours,_

_Callistus._

She takes it and promptly dumps into a vat of wine. Gria never knew wolves could shriek til that moment. 

_“_ White is the most useless color given my work, silly wolf.” 

The beast crouches at her feet mournfully. 

“And besides,” she says holding the freshly dyed cloth aloft, “it looks so much lovelier now. I think I shall make a cloak.”

A well crafted pair of spectacles glass arrives;

_Dear Cousin_

_May this gift enhance the loveliness of your eyes._

_Yours,_

_Callistus_

Gria sighed. “Are you saying my eyesight is poor, lord wolf? How unkind. I merely stare at the accounting for long hours.”

The wolf huffed at this.

A pair of rabbits, pure white, stained with blood around their necks.

_Cousin,_

_Wine is no surrogate for food._

_Yours,_

_Callistus_

“That may be true, but alas I get paid for wine and not for food, lord wolf.” 

The wolf sniffs at this comment, nudging the rabbits in her direction with his snout. 

Gria sighs. “Fine, I will roast them for supper. If you stay out of the way, and try to not scare the customers, I _may_ spare some for you. One would think you were a hen and not a wolf.” 

* * *

And then, finally one day in place of a wolf, a man holding a familiar dagger darkens her doorstep “I thought of words to put to page but none were sufficient for what I wish to say,” he begins, his tone pensive. 

“I have no interest in becoming a pampered doll trotted out to be gawked at, so if that is your desire you can leave.”

He chuckles. “If I desired meekness, I would have ran as soon as you pierced my heart, Gria.”

“Obviously, you’ve healed.” She gestures to the slim dagger in his hand. “And I’ve sadly caused little damage to your mouth.” “I assure you my mouth has other purposes, that it thrives at.”

“Yes, I’ve seen many a parcel clasped in your jaws like a good lapdog.”

“And if I wish to lay in your lap, Gria? Would you have me?” She steps forward, slipping the dagger out of his hands. It’s sharp and clean with no sign of its previous home between Callistus’s ribs. Sangria slices across her palm, the motion stinging kiss across the flesh. She feels her blood flow like wine across her palm and drip upon the ground. 

“I have no need for a lapdog”, she holds out her palm to him. “But I am willing to accept a wolf at my back.”

Callistus takes her hand and licks the blood from her palm. 

**Author's Note:**

> happy yuletide?? i hope i hit at least SOME OF YOUR DESIRES T_T


End file.
